


This Bed of Sinfulness

by clocksworks



Series: Ultra Dave [2]
Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossdressing, For pinksyndicate, Inspired by Trey Songz, Inspired by the Barrel of a Gun video, Lapdance, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29758653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clocksworks/pseuds/clocksworks
Summary: All things considered, Alan had never expected to find true love at a strip club.
Relationships: Dave Gahan/Alan Wilder
Series: Ultra Dave [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166195
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18





	This Bed of Sinfulness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinksyndicate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinksyndicate/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday present for the very dear **Pinksyndicate** , who is our resident DM perv. They asked for a fic based on [Trey Songz's 'Neighbours Know My Name' ](https://youtu.be/E98IYokujSY) so here it is. I adore you to pieces, dear Mo! I tried very hard to make it dark but it turned into domestic fluff because I’m hopeless. At least I made it as smutty as I could?
> 
> Ultra Dave [looks like this](https://youtu.be/GhM7o9OgRys). The Alan I had in my head was Devotional Al with his sexy arms and such, but I leave it up to the reader!
> 
> The song Dave [dances to is this](https://youtu.be/Ypgq0qdgVZA).

All things considered, Alan had never expected to find true love at a strip club. But something had happened the night he’d met Dave three months ago at The Sacred Heart, something inexplicable that had made him nod when Dave had asked him to spend the night at his flat after the show. That very same ‘something’ had also made Alan stay for breakfast the next day, then come back to see Dave over the weekend. Before he knew it, weeks and months had whizzed by - and Alan found himself in so deep that it had left him concerned and a little confused.

Thankfully for both of them, Dave had been neither concerned nor confused. Dave was a very straightforward bloke who had no qualms telling Alan - or anyone else - how he felt at any given time. “You should just move in here,” Dave offered over dinner at his flat one night, when Alan mentioned that the end of his lease was coming up. “It’s closer to the studio for you, right?”

Alan was so surprised that he’d almost forgotten to swallow his food. “Yeah, it is,” he said after a while, Dave grinning expectantly at him the whole time. “You don’t mind?”

“Why the fuck would I mind, mate?” Dave replied. “It’s what couples do, right? Move in together after they fall in love, and such.”

Dave blithely moved on to some other topic - Daryl fancying one of the girls at the club or something - completely unaware that Alan was sitting there, reeling like a freight train had just plowed through his head. Later that night, when Alan was lying in bed with a purring Dave wrapped around him in a post-coital haze of bliss, Alan realised Dave was right. They _were_ a couple.

Somewhere between the moment he’d first spotted Dave on stage at the club and when they’d been making dinner at Dave’s flat, he’d fallen in love. Instead of dread and panic, the thought filled Alan with such peace and assurance that he’d pressed his lips to Dave’s forehead, burying his nose in Dave’s longish hair. Dave only snuffled back against him in slumber, his tattooed arm curling tighter around Alan.

And that was the story of how Alan ended up moving into Dave’s flat.  
  


***  
  


Moving into Dave’s place had been surprisingly effortless. Dave lived in the same building as his bandmates, so Alan’s moving day had somehow ended up turning into a community event of sorts. Martin and Fletch, who lived on the floor above, had come downstairs to help Alan carry in his things - or more accurately, order Dave around while they watched and provided running commentary. Daryl, who had the flat next door, had brought over a pot of chickpea curry for dinner after they were done getting Alan settled in. It was nice, watching Dave with his friends as they chatted and argued and handed out plates of rice and curry to one another.

If it weren’t for Dave, Alan might have never considered moving to this part of the city. Dagenham was far enough from Central London that it was technically considered part of Essex, but Dave had been right: it was really only a 20-minute drive to Alan’s studio. The rent was also shockingly reasonable since Dave and his friends had gotten some kind of group discount from the landlord, a mysterious bloke named Vince. “We used to know him, back in Basildon,” Fletch explained to Alan. “So we get a discount, sort of.”

“That’s convenient,” Alan said. And it really was, in a way. But Alan couldn’t understand how Dave didn’t seem to mind working _and_ living with his colleagues in such close quarters. As far as his own co-workers were concerned, Alan liked Flood well enough, but he was sure he might be driven to a murder spree if he also had to live in the same building with Gareth, Paul, Dan and the others.

“Yeah it is, it’s easier to drive together to work everyday,” Dave said, probably in response to the doubt on Alan’s face. He had his hair tied up in a short man bun, which was very unfairly distracting for Alan. Dave-at-Home was very different from Work-Dave, who wore makeup and black leather trousers and glittery vests. In contrast, Dave-at-Home loved his white tank tops and tight, scuffed jeans, and he especially loved appropriating Alan’s work shirts for some reason. There were a few times Alan had come home to find Dave in bed, wearing one of Alan’s button-downs, a sultry smile and nothing else.

Those had been particularly .... memorable incidents. And if he and Dave had been a little loud most times, then Alan hoped this building had thick walls. Judging from how Dave’s bandmates never complained about the noise levels or mentioned anything to Alan, he decided it was safe to make that assumption.

“More beer, Alan?” Martin offered, getting up from the table to head over to the fridge. _Dave’s_ fridge, actually-- not that Dave seemed to mind his friends rooting around his kitchen. Must be the result of living in each other’s pockets all the time.

“Yeah, sure mate.” Alan flashed Martin a grateful smile as he accepted a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale. Under the table, Dave’s foot rubbed against his affectionately, and Alan grinned back at him.  
  


***  
  


“Wait-- you mean the male stripper at the club we went to?”

Gareth’s shocked exclamation was loud enough to draw curious gazes from the other staff milling around the studio cafeteria. Flood flashed them a sheepish nothing-to-see-here smile, while Paul snickered with relish and Alan buried his face in his hands. When he finally decided to lift his head again, Gareth was still gawking at him in perplexment.

“He’s _not_ a stripper,” Alan said calmly, returning to the lunchbox Dave had packed for him. Of all things, Dave had recently gotten hooked on these Youtube videos of Asian girls making cute bento boxes with food in animal shapes and such, and had decided that Alan would be his first victim. Taking the lid off his lunchbox, Alan peered down at the mangled mess of rice and seaweed. Maybe Dave had meant to shape it into a panda, but it’d ended up looking like a deranged badger instead. “He’s a-- performer. A singer,” Alan added, tucking into the food. It tasted delicious anyway. “An artist.”

“Rrright.” Gareth’s voice was dripping with skepticism, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Alan. “An ‘artist’, I see.” His fingers hooked the air to make quotation marks, as though implying that Dave was a porn star.

“Some of them prefer to be called ‘exotic dancers’,” Paul chipped in very reasonably. “Doesn’t matter though. Least it’s an honest living, right?”

“That is absolutely right,” Alan said. “Except that he _isn’t._ Dave’s the singer of the club band. He’s got an amazing voice.”

The table fell quiet then. Alan wasn’t stupid; he could sense the other blokes exchanging glances and shrugs like ‘oooh someone’s touchy about his man-mistress’. They probably assumed Alan was defending Dave’s honour because he was deep in the throes of infatuation, but nothing could be further from the truth. Well, okay - he really was quite besotted with Dave - but Alan trusted his keen musician’s ear not to be overridden by his dick. Dave really _could_ sing, and Martin had written some damn fine songs.

Alan shelved away the impulse to suggest letting Dave’s band come into the recording studio for a bit. He knew Dan Miller wouldn’t mind, as long as Alan agreed to work extra hours to cover the cost. However, now probably wasn’t the best time to bring it up.

“He made that for you?” Flood said, squinting over at Alan’s food in amusement. “That’s-- endearing, actually.”

Alan smiled down at his lunch. “Let’s just say his talents aren’t in the kitchen.” _More like in the bedroom,_ a voice piped up gleefully in his head. And okay, maybe his dick really was taking over a bit.

Gareth’s sly smile stretched across his face. “Looks like Wilder’s finally bitten the dust,” he crowed. Then he turned to Paul, pointing to him with his fork. “Which means _you_ are the last bachelor standing.”

“Bollocks to that,” Paul said with his mouth full, making Gareth recoil in disgust. “Single life is brilliant. It’s the best.”

As Paul, Gareth and Flood continued bickering, Alan watched in amusement and shook his head, enjoying the food Dave made for him.

Paul definitely couldn’t have been more wrong.  
  


***  
  


Things became unexpectedly busy after Alan’s big move, because the deadline for his recording project with BBC Radio was suddenly moved up. At the last minute Alan found himself dispatched to Scotland with Flood for a week because Sir Patrick Stewart was doing a live reading at the Edinburgh Film Festival, which the BBC wanted for their audio archives. Dave and his band were occupied as well; there was a travelling troupe of exotic dancers from Amsterdam who were performing at the Sacred Heart for a special one-week engagement, and they needed to rehearse their backing tracks with Dave’s band.

So Alan left for Edinburgh with a heavy heart, trying not to be too jealous of his boyfriend being stuck in a dark club with scantily-clad Dutch beauties for an entire week. “But he’s _always_ surrounded by half-naked women anyway,” Flood reminded him during the train journey, and Alan had ended up giving poor Flood the evil eye until they reached Scotland.

Still, it wasn’t as bad as Alan had thought. Edinburgh was as astonishingly beautiful as he remembered it, its winding hills decorated with quaint, ancient buildings, Edinburgh Castle looming over the city like a watchful sentinel. Alan was too busy to do much sightseeing, but in the evenings he’d go out for a quick walk and a smoke, snapping random pictures and sending them all to Dave before he trudged back to work. If he felt a little lonely, no one else had to know.

In contrast, Dave seemed to be having a ball of a time back home. Alan’s phone was clogged with selfies of Dave clowning around with the Dutch girls, their feather boas draped around him with lipstick marks scattered all over his cheeks. As their stay progressed, the girls started sharing their stage make-up with Dave too, and Alan found it hard to be jealous whenever he scrolled through Dave’s instagram feed. It was plastered with photos of him in glittery eyeshadow and lipstick, his half-lidded eyes ringed with dark liner giving come-hither looks to the camera - to _Alan_ , because Dave’s captions kept raving about how much he missed Alan and wanted him back in London.

“When will you be back again?” Dave sounded wistful on the phone when he called that evening. There was faint music booming in the background, which meant he was probably sneaking a smoke break outside the club while talking to Alan.

“In two days,” Alan promised. Behind him, Flood was muttering to himself as he replayed Patrick Stewart’s recordings for the umpteenth time. Alan respected Sir Patrick as an actor, but by this point he was so fucking tired of the man’s voice. Hearing Dave’s instead was like being rewarded with a nice cold glass of grapefruit juice in summer. “So you’d better clear the Dutch milkmaids out of the flat by the time I come back, Gahan.”

Dave’s boyish, delighted laugh made Alan’s heart feel ten times lighter. “Mart’s organising the last orgy as we speak.”

Alan rolled his eyes even though Dave wouldn’t be able to see it. “Glad to see you miss me.” He was mostly joking, although there was something tender and wistful caught in his chest, right under his ribs. It didn’t help that the window he was currently staring out of had the perfect view of Edinburgh Castle, all golden and regal in the warm orange glow of the setting sun. He knew Dave would’ve loved it here.

Dave must have heard that unspoken thing in Alan’s voice, because he said in an indignant rush: “Of course I fuckin’ miss you, Charlie. Christ, I’d drop a windmill on all these Dutch birds in a heartbeat if it meant you could be here with me now, y’know.”

Now Alan really couldn’t help laughing. “Such terrible suffering for you, surrounded by all those beautiful women.”

“I suffer well,” Dave said proudly, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. “Y’know, some of them taught me a few slutty moves for my absent boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Even though there was no way Flood or anyone else could have overheard Dave, Alan felt heat blooming in his cheeks. “Is that so?”

“Mmmhmm.” Dave now sounded horribly smug as he inhaled deeply. Alan could imagine the purse of his mouth around his cigarillo. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

He’d said the last bit in a gleeful, sing-song voice, laughing until Alan could hear Fletch impatiently calling for him to start rehearsals. “Right, gotta go, Al.” Now Dave sounded a bit wistful too. “Call me again later, yeah?”

“Talk then.” Alan waited until Dave hung up, holding onto the phone and staring at Edinburgh Castle in the distance until Flood threw a cable at him.  
  


***  
  


Alan’s return to London was marred by disastrous weather and circumstances. Flood was staying an extra day in Edinburgh to tie up all the loose ends, so it was just Alan taking the train home on his own. To his horror, his new seatmate was a hairy bloke who smelled like he’d smeared tuna all under his armpits. Then Alan discovered he had accidentally left behind his charging cable at the hotel, so he had to be stingy with the remainder of his phone battery. Even worse - thanks to the horrible weather - people were boarding the train in wet and squeaky footwear, leaving the floor slippery and the indoor air horribly muggy and damp, the train carriage smelling like damp mouldy shoes.

Alan just couldn’t wait to get to London, to his cosy, dry, non-fishy flat.

He sent all his complaints via a running stream of texts to poor Dave, who responded with soothing reassurances during his breaks and tried to cheer Alan up with memes and hilarious pictures of cross-eyed cats. They made Alan smile, at least.

Then the next few pictures Dave sent had a different effect on Alan altogether.

It soon became clear that the Dutch dancers were now sharing more than just their make-up with Dave. The photos flooding Alan’s phone contained glimpses of Dave’s legs clad in sheer black stockings, or a lacey bralette peeking out from under his maroon vest. Alan was doing his damndest to keep a straight face since he was on public transport, but it was hard since Captain Tuna beside him kept trying to peer over at Alan’s screen. Honestly, at one point Alan was sorely tempted to shove a close-up photo of Dave’s obvious bulge right in the bloke’s face. But if the guy had a heart attack in the train or something, then Alan would have to wait for the ambulance with Captain Tuna instead of rushing home to Dave. So he resisted.

Alan’s phone finally died just as the train reached the outskirts of London, so he was left flipping through one of Flood’s audiophile magazines (which even _he_ found boring) or making faces at the smiley baby opposite him. Once Alan got tired of that, he stared out of the window at all the graffitied walls passing them by, unable to stop thinking about Dave’s legs, his hands, his mouth, those glimpses of hosiery.

Once the train pulled into Euston, Alan stayed behind to help the baby’s mother with her errant pram, which seemed to be stuck. Unfortunately this meant that once he was done wrangling with the pram and finally managed to emerge from the station, the line of black cabs waiting outside had diminished entirely. Fuck, he couldn’t even use his phone to book an Uber or let Dave know he would be late.

It was only half an hour later when he managed to finally get into a cab, ignoring the driver’s nervous throat-clearing once they crossed into Dagenham. Despite its shoddy reputation, it really wasn’t as awful as the other seedier parts of London. Alan’s neighbours were quite friendly, but that was probably because the majority of them in the building were transplants from Basildon like Dave himself. Alan admittedly felt a little left out at times, because everyone else seemed to know each other and call each other nicknames like ‘Dazza’ (for Daryl) and ‘Alley-Oop’ (which referred to Alison Moyet, a seemingly harmless but terrifying woman on the fifth floor who often threatened Martin for nicking her eyeliner). Given that he’d only been living in the building for a month, Alan supposed it was reasonable to give people more time to know his name. Nicknames would definitely take longer.

As the cab pulled up outside Dave’s building, Alan paid for the fare and mentally prepared himself to lug all his bags out of the boot and up four flights of stairs. So he was very surprised when one of Dave’s neighbours - a short and mousy ginger bloke - happened to be passing by, then nodded at him and stopped to help Alan with his bags.

“Thanks, mate.” Alan trudged in with his luggage as Ginger Bloke held the building’s main door open for him. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“No problem, Al.” The mousy bloke went on his merry way, texting on his phone as he left the building. Alan stared after him in surprise. Fuck, Ginger Bloke knew who Alan was but Alan didn’t even know his name. Oh well, he thought as he lugged everything upstairs, Dave could fill him in later.

When he finally got to the flat, Alan found the door locked, the flat seemingly dark and quiet. Dave had told him that he’d asked for the night off, so Anton had hired a replacement band to fill in at the Sacred Heart. Swallowing his disappointment at not finding Dave ready and waiting for him, Alan fished for his keys and started unlocking the door. His plans for a noisy reunion with Dave were looking less likely.

All the lights in the flat were off except for Alan’s reading lamp, which they used whenever they were listening to records or watching movies. To Alan’s surprise, he noticed all the furniture had been pushed up against the walls, leaving the living room floor clear except for a solitary cushioned chair right in the middle of it. Around the room were a few lit candles, perfuming the air with sandalwood and lavender.

“Dave?” Alan called out cautiously, closing the door and locking it before setting his luggage aside. “You in?”

He thought he heard a chuckle from the bedroom. “Take a seat on the chair,” came Dave’s reply from inside.

Alan was so confused. “What’s going on?”

“Do it, Charlie.”

Shaking his head at his errant boyfriend, Alan sat down on the chair as instructed, wondering what Dave was up to. Suddenly loud music boomed from the living room speakers, and it took Alan only a second to recognise the very familiar drum fill and guitar chords as ‘Fame’ took over the stereo.

“Dave?” Alan was intrigued now, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. “Where are you?”

His question was answered by Dave sashaying out of the bedroom, dressed elegantly in a pinstripe suit that fit his slim frame perfectly. Alan’s jaw dropped as a barefoot Dave strutted up to him with a sultry smile, his eyes lidded with glittery blue eyeshadow and his lips looking like a little red purse. His longish hair was neatly swept back and tucked behind his ears, but his bangs were falling forward, catching in his eyelashes.

“Sit back and enjoy the lapdance you paid for, _Sir_.” Dave dropped him a saucy wink, leaning in so that their faces were close and Alan could smell his aftershave. Before Alan could dart forward and steal a kiss, Dave pulled away with a naughty laugh, waving a no-no finger at him. “No touching the performers, please.”

Alan was still trying to absorb the fact that his drop-dead sexy boyfriend was apparently going to give him a private lapdance. Fuck, it hadn’t even started yet and he was already half-hard. All his earlier exhaustion and frustration were already forgotten. “What if I want to touch?” Alan asked, playing along as he quirked an eyebrow at Dave.

“We’ll see if you behaved.” Grinning at him, Dave began circling Alan in time with the song, his hand trailing across Alan’s cheek. His thumb brushed against Alan’s mouth, and Alan couldn’t help the quick flicker of his tongue against Dave’s skin, causing Dave to make a low, hungry “mmh” sound. Fuck, Dave really was the living personification of sex-on-legs.

Alan hadn’t really paid much attention whenever he’d spotted the girls at the Sacred Heart giving lapdances to other customers, so he wasn’t sure what lapdances entailed. Dave had stopped circling the chair and was standing in front of Alan, his hips gyrating slowly from side to side in time with the music. _Fuck_ it was so hot, Alan’s hands itching to reach out and touch. He was mesmerised by the sway of Dave’s hips, seductive and alluring.

Now Dave was turning around so that Alan was treated to a close-up view of that marvellously tight, round arse that he was so addicted to. It was only when he felt his hand lightly smacked away that he realised he had subconsciously reached out to palm Dave’s right cheek, and Dave was dropping him a sleazy 'Later, handsome' wink over his shoulder.

Alright, Alan told himself with a smirk. He could be a patient bloke when he wanted to be.

His patience was soon rewarded. Dave turned back to face him, seemingly amused by the look that must be on Alan’s face. Taking a step forward, Dave deftly planted his knees on both sides of Alan’s thighs, straddling him as he wrapped his arms around Alan’s neck. Alan was drunk on the sudden closeness of Dave after all that teasing, his eyes hungrily flitting from Dave’s eyes to his luscious mouth to his chin to the smooth pale skin of his throat. Dave was still swaying in time to Bowie’s sultry vocals, every inch the performer he was born to be - whether in front of an adoring crowd, or a private audience of an adoring boyfriend.

Alan was admirably managing to hold himself back while Dave writhed on his lap, but he was caught off guard by a wet, steamy kiss that Dave stole out of the blue, moaning when Dave started sucking on his tongue, mimicking the way he’d suck on the head of Alan’s cock in bed. “Couldn’t help it, Al,” Dave hissed apologetically when they broke off. “You look so fuckin’ good.”

“You too,” Alan said breathlessly, his hands sliding down to grab Dave’s deliciously firm bum. “Fuck, I love you.”

That earned him another positively filthy kiss, after which Dave whispered, “Love you too,” before he threw his head back and started swaying in time to the song again. Alan was as hard as nails now, and it wasn’t helping matters when his trapped erection kept rubbing up against Dave’s sinuous body.

Watching Dave dancing just for him was turning Alan on beyond belief, but apparently Dave still had a few tricks up his sleeve. He winked at Alan before his hands slid down his own chest, meeting at the buttons. Then he undid them with a grin, pretending to be shy about shrugging off the navy pinstripe jacket. Alan watched with a dazed smile, not even looking where Dave was dropping the jacket on the floor. Now the buttons for his black shirt were next, Dave grinning at Alan before he flashed Alan a glimpse of a black lace camisole.

 _Oh my God._ Alan’s mouth hung open as Dave laughed at the look on his face, rewarding him with the quickest of kisses before Dave clambered off his lap again, ignoring the grabby motions Alan was involuntarily making as he shed the shirt and the camisole. Dave’s tattoos were now on full display, and Alan wanted to lick every single inch of Dave’s skin until he came and came. His hand shot out without his permission, reaching for Dave's arse.

“What did I say about patience, hmm?” Dave chastisingly wagged a finger at Alan again before resuming the hip-swaying motion from earlier, his eyes closed as he lost himself in the slinky music. Alan forced himself to sit back and just enjoy the show, ignoring his own instincts to grab Dave to him and fuck him in this very chair.

Now Dave’s hands were sliding downwards, a slow caress of his body before his fingertips reached his waistband. Here he shot Alan a sly look from beneath his lashes, the seductive minx. Alan licked his lips, his eyes riveted to Dave’s skilful hands unbuttoning his tight trousers and slowly, slowly inching down the zip.

“Tease.” Alan meant it as a light-hearted jibe, so he was surprised at the roughness of his voice, as well as the blush that bloomed on Dave’s cheeks. Dave swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he finally shed his trousers, tossing them halfway across the room.

Alan stared. And stared. Because Dave was now only in his briefs, but he was also wearing those fucking black stockings in the photos he’d sent to Alan on the train.

“Like them, Charlie?” Dave propped a foot on the side of Alan’s thigh, smirking as he ran a hand up and down his leg, which he must have shaved for the occasion. “It’s just for you, y’know. Those Dutch birds told me that it drives a bloke crazy when you wear these and nothing else for them.”

Alan’s throat was dry. He couldn’t speak, only running a hand up and down the smooth nylon. Dave shivered at his touch, and of course Alan didn’t miss the massive bulge in his underwear. “They’re beautiful,” Alan finally managed, before looking up at Dave. “ _You’re_ beautiful.”

That must have broken something in Dave, for he climbed onto the chair again, neatly straddling Alan as his fingers tightened in Alan’s hair, holding him still for a really dirty kiss, one with open mouths and tongues and lips slippery with Dave’s lipstick. “Oh fuck, Al,” Dave whispered in between kisses. “Want you to rip these stockings later while you fuck me--”

“With pleasure,” Alan growled as he nipped at Dave’s lips, his hand skirting near the edge of Dave’s briefs. “Can I-- fuck, need to touch you--”

“Do it,” Dave mumbled, trailing off in a moan as Alan’s hand slid into his underwear, palming his stiff erection. Fuck, Dave must have been as hard as Alan the whole time, despite all that restraint. They groped blindly at each other, the music almost forgotten in the background. Now it wasn’t Bowie anymore, but it was something equally sexy and made for strutting. Alan wasn’t surprised that Dave had a ready repertoire of stripper music up his sleeve.

“I don’t know if you’re going to dance some more,” Alan panted, as Dave tugged on Alan’s earlobe with his teeth. “But I’m going to drag you to our bed and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for days.”

A shiver ran through Dave, making him moan against the shell of Alan’s ear. “Fuck, Charlie, _please_ ,” he begged.

Gripping Dave’s hips, Alan lifted him with a grunt as they tottered towards the bedroom, flinging Dave onto the bed before Alan pounced on him barely a second later. They kissed and kissed and kissed, rolling around and knocking the pillows off the bed and God knew what else, but Alan didn’t care because he had to get his hands on Dave’s skin and his hair and those fucking stockings, all smooth and satiny and asking to be ripped.

When Alan started to pull away from the kiss so he could reach for the lube on their bedside table, Dave stopped him. “No need,” he said with a sly smile, wriggling under Alan’s body. “I’m ready for you.”

“What do you mean?” Puzzled, Alan watched as Dave shimmied out of his briefs - but thankfully left the stockings on. Then Dave took Alan’s hand and guided it to between his legs, Alan’s fingers automatically seeking Dave’s entrance.

Alan let out a soft, strangled noise when he realised his fingers slid in without resistance, Dave already slick and relaxed around him. “What--”

“Took a long bath while waiting for you, then got into bed and prepped myself,” Dave declared proudly, nipping on Alan’s bottom lip. “Wanted to wear a plug, actually. But I was afraid it might fall out while dancing, yeah?”

Alan’s brain short-circuited at the thought of Dave wearing a butt plug for him, to keep himself open and ready for Alan. Dave gave him a dirty laugh, smacking him on the bum to urge him into moving. “On the other hand, I used the new strawberry lube you bought.”

“Oh?” Alan pretended to look very serious and concerned. “Did you taste it?”

Dave shook his head, a grin growing on his face once he figured out what Alan was up to.

“Well, then.” Alan pretended to clear his throat, as though his fingers weren’t inside Dave. “Guess I should check to see if it really is strawberry flavoured.”

Dave’s grin grew wider and wider. “Guess you should.”

Alan’s breathing was become heavier and heavier, sliding his fingers out. “Turn over,” he ordered.

A full-body sudden ran through Dave as he moaned so loudly that his toes curled. He shifted onto his side, rolling onto his belly as Alan pulled his hips up so that Dave had his arse in the air, pushing his thighs apart.

“You’re gorgeous.” Alan was panting now, holding Dave open as he planted kisses on each cheek. “I want to lick you out until you’re screaming.”

“Do it,” came Dave’s muffled reply, his face buried in the pillows. “Please, Charlie, please.”

“You beg so prettily,” Alan told him, rewarding him with a gentle smack on the arse before he leaned in, dragging his tongue over Dave’s hole. Dave moaned, pushing back into Alan’s face like a man gone insane.

It really was strawberry-flavoured lube, but that was the last thing Alan cared about as his tongue explored Dave, dipping into the tight ring of muscle and eating him out as Dave cried out and sobbed into the pillow. Finally Alan could see Dave raising his head, begging Alan to fuck him and tear his stockings and rough him up until they were both battered and bruised. “Please, Charlie, for fuck’s sake--”

Alan’s own cock felt like it was about to explode, so he quickly got off the bed and shed his clothes as fast as he could, not caring where everything landed until he was finally naked. He didn’t even need to use the lube on himself; Dave was slick enough for both of them, and he cried out as Alan guided his cock into him, sliding home with a loud groan of Dave’s name.

The room was filled with the loud slaps of Alan’s thighs against Dave’s, their moans, the music from outside that was still playing. Dave was now on all fours, one hand gripping the headboard as he cursed and screamed and kept shouting, “Charlie, oh my god, fuck, Charlie, harder, fuck--” and Alan did as he requested, his hands ripping one stocking off Dave’s leg while the other fisted in his hair, which Dave absolutely _loved_ during sex. “Pull my hair harder, Charlie, please--”

“With pleasure,” Alan growled, tugging on Dave’s hair so that he was almost yanked backward but his grip on the headboard stopped him. Alan let his other hand settle on the small of Dave’s back, on the gleaming sweat pooling there and begging for Alan’s tongue. So Alan gave in, briefly bending down to drag his tongue across Dave’s skin before he returned to giving Dave the pounding of his life.

It was so good and so insanely hot, nothing between Alan and Dave, not even condoms - they had both gotten tested the week after Alan had first spent the night - and Alan’s heart was so full, his mouth spilling things he’d been holding back during the week in Edinburgh - how much he’d missed Dave, how jealous he’d been - and Dave was just gasping and moaning, looking over his shoulder at Alan and Alan could see the hunger and desperation in his eyes, how much he’d missed Alan himself, how long he’d waited for Alan the whole day-- no, the whole week. Alan’s hips snapped as he tried to drive his cock even further into Dave, so close that they’d never be apart again.

“Fuck, Charlie!” Dave screamed before he arched his back, the massive tattoo on his shoulderblades dark with sweat. Letting out a shocked moan as he came and came all over the bed, Dave collapsed into a heap on the mattress, shaking and trembling with exertion. Immediately Alan clambered onto the bed, burying his face in Dave’s shoulders as he thrust his cock against any part of Dave he could manage, moaning like a man possessed.

“Charlie,” he heard Dave say, his voice raspy. “My face. Do it on my face.”

“What?” Alan panted, trying to pause his orgasm-driven mind just one second so he could understand what Dave was asking for.

Dave turned over under Alan’s body, grinning so wide that Alan could see all his lovely little pointy teeth. “I want you to come on my face,” he said, reaching down to stroke Alan’s neglected cock, his voice ruined raw with sex. “Mess up my make-up, Al. Use me. Please.”

Alan had to reach down and bat Dave’s hand away before he came right now and then he wouldn’t be able to get to his face on time. “Let me move up,” Alan said roughly, before Dave understood and laid flat on the bed, letting Alan shimmy up so he was straddling Dave’s chest, his cock pointed towards Dave’s beautiful rosy mouth, his eyes closed and covered with all that glittery eyeshadow.

Alan stroked himself faster and faster, getting more and more turned on by the patient eagerness on Dave’s face, so eager for Alan’s come. When he remembered how Dave had grinded against his lap earlier during the dance, Alan let out a shocked moan as he spurted come all over Dave’s face, some of it landing on his chin and cheek, some of it caught in his beautifully long lashes.

“Fuck.” Dave’s tongue was peeking out to lick up any of Alan’s come that had landed near his mouth. As per his request, Alan raised a shaky hand and smeared the rest into Dave’s make-up, leaving him used and all slutty like he’d wanted.

Climbing off Dave, Alan collapsed onto the mattress beside him, both of them panting and fighting to catch their breaths. Once Alan’s brain came back online, he nuzzled against Dave’s come-smeared cheek. “You okay?”

Dave snorted. “Maybe you can help me look for my brains,” he said. “Since you fucked them outta me.”

Both of them chuckled as they drew close together, Alan stroking Dave’s hair and tucking it behind his ear. There was even a bit of Alan’s semen on a few strands, but he figured they were both probably going to take a shower after this. “Hope you didn’t learn all those moves firsthand from those Dutch girls,” Alan said a little too mildly, his heart still pounding in his chest.

Dave shot him a knowing, amused look. “Don’t worry, Al. I had them show me a demonstration on Mart.”

Alan laughed and laughed.  
  


***  
  


The next day, Dave’s bandmates and neighbours came over for an impromptu dinner to welcome Alan back, all of them chatting animatedly over Thai food while teasing a red-faced Martin about his dalliance with one of the Dutch girls. Alan actually found himself enjoying the company; it was admittedly better than a night alone in his old flat with a beer and some QPR match on the telly.

Plus, he was decidedly enjoying the way Dave was walking a little gingerly today, wincing whenever he sat down on the hard dining chairs. Alan couldn’t help but feel a little smug, already wondering what else they could get up to once everyone had left their flat. Maybe he could convince Dave to show him a few other moves he’d learned from the girls.

“I hate you all,” Martin announced with feeling as he stood up, the rest of them laughing as Daryl did a scarily good impersonation of the Dutch dancer batting her eyelashes at Mart. “I’m going to get a beer.”

“Get me one, Mart,” Fletch called out, grinning as he stretched his legs out under the table.

“Fat chance, you laughed the loudest. I only get drinks for people who don’t laugh at me,” Martin said haughtily, before gesturing at Alan. “Want one, Charlie?”

“Yeah sure,” Alan said, although he noticed that everyone had suddenly stopped laughing and was now looking between him and Martin with wide eyes. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dave said hurriedly. “Hey, should we do a nice dinner for the Dutch girls before they fly home? They--”

Something was pinging in Alan’s brain as he sat up, squinting suspiciously at Martin. “Wait, how do you know my middle name?”

Martin looked like a deer caught in the headlights, looking pleadingly to Dave for help. “Um--”

Dave shrugged, although his cheeks were starting to run red again. “Oh well, you know, I call you Charlie all the time.”

“Not in front of the others,” Alan said slowly, then he groaned as the answer dawned on him.

There was a short, pregnant silence at the dining table, which lasted until Daryl mimicked in a high-pitched voice: “Pull my hair, Charlie!” Then everyone erupted in a sudden burst of laughter and giggles, Fletch laughing so hard that his face was almost as red as his hair. Even Martin was chuckling, probably glad that he was no longer the subject of mockery.

“What do you expect?” Alison Moyet said consolingly, reaching over and patting a groaning Alan on the shoulder. “Dave’s a vocalist. I assume that’s what they’re like in bed.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” Dave didn’t look uncomfortable - he rarely was whenever the topic was about sex - but he seemed to be taking pity on Alan. “Poor Al’s about to burst into flames.”

“Hair-pulling,” Christian - the band’s drummer - mused. Although he wasn’t from Basildon, he didn’t seem to have any problem making fun of Alan and Dave either. “Who was the one who figured that Gahan would be into that?”

Fletch’s hand shot up with glee.

“We’ll be quieter next time,” Alan said apologetically, as Dave pulled him closer to nuzzle against his neck. “I’m really sorry.”

“Oh please, don’t be.” Daryl was grinning from ear to ear. “Good entertainment when there’s nothing on the telly.”

“Wait.” Alan sat up in realisation. “Is that how one of the neighbours knew my name? Short ginger bloke, kind of mousy-looking--”

Fletch’s jaw dropped. “You met Vince! No wonder he asked me if Dave was seeing someone called ‘Al’ or ‘Charlie’.”

“And sorry to break it to you, Charlie,” Daryl said smoothly. “But _everyone_ in the building knows your name. Dave’s vocal prowess is nothing to sniff at.”

“You can all fuck off,” Dave said calmly as everyone laughed again. But honestly speaking, it was hard for Alan to mind when he had Dave pressed against him like this, nuzzling Alan like he couldn’t wait to get him into bed again.

And that was the story of how everyone in Dave’s building ended up knowing Alan’s name.  
  
  
  



End file.
